


The One Where Vos's Face Gets Stuck

by fascinationex



Series: transformers fics by fascinationex [52]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Heavily Implied Torture, M/M, Robogore, Vos's mask is the third main character in this fic, bit of murder, dead traitors, flirting only, flirting over dead traitors, fuel licking, rated for violence and not sexiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:29:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29674242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fascinationex/pseuds/fascinationex
Summary: Vos's face gets stuck. Poor Vos.
Relationships: Helex/Vos (Transformers)
Series: transformers fics by fascinationex [52]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1311599
Comments: 13
Kudos: 35





	The One Where Vos's Face Gets Stuck

This is... awkward. 

They've brought down an entire ship of Decepticon deserters—typical, traitors nesting together like retrorats, huddled in fear of their natural predators—and this is the last one Vos can expect to deal with. He's a buggy of some kind, only a little bigger than Kaon, and painted a lurid yellow. 

The bright yellow really shows all the dribbling energon and scorched metal.

The buggy has long since given up the fight: he wailed and wheezed for a while, and Vos peeled him open like a wrapped gift, found his fuel pump and pulled out long lengths of still-attached piping...

But he saved his head for last, because the processor is important. There's no point hurting someone whose processor isn't working—might as well torture a mechanimal or an organic, or something equally uncomprehending.

But now Vos's face is... stuck. 

On the buggy's own ugly yellow face. 

Vos tugs on it, and it creaks—the buggy sobs—and moves perhaps an inch. Fuel leaks out. He can hear that the mech's optics are shattered.

He pulls again, harder. 

It doesn't come out. 

Among the many hooks and spikes on the back of his mask, all rammed deeply into the defector's helm, something has gotten... caught. Probably on something quite important, to the defector.

Static crackles, comms alive despite every attempt made by the mechanisms living here to prevent their operation. Kaon is easily the most determined comms officer Vos has ever worked with.

: _Status check_ : 

Tarn's voice is always very civil, over the comms. It's usually pretty civil when he's talking someone to death, too.

(He's even civil, very performatively, when he talks to the Pet—the whole team is.

They used to call it Vos, even, sometimes, and then Tarn would click his vocaliser and pretend to be disappointed by their tasteless humour. It's what passes for polite hazing, on this team, he supposes.)

Vos sends back a binary positive, because he's not having a _problem_ , he's just...

He's having a problem, okay, but it's a stupid, humiliating problem, he's going to resolve it in a minute, and he definitely does not need to tell Tarn or anyone else about it. 

A minute of futile pulling, and also some garbled screaming to Primus, passes.

Then five minutes. There's another status check, this one a little pointed.

Vos begins to swear.

At length, he plants one foot upon the buggy's overheating body, hooks his fingers around the loose edges of the mask, and _heaves_ , hard, just to get his mask to dislodge....and it still won't come all the way out. His fingers ache. 

He pulls harder. It shrieks—both the mask and the target, again. The target is louder. Again.

Vos makes a long, vicious noise, incomprehensible to modern cybertronians.

It doesn't quite drown out the deep, barking laughter behind him. 

"We were wondering what was keeping you," Helex says, between completely undeserved guffaws.

So now there's a new witness to this embarrassment. One he's not allowed to kill.

Vos makes a gesture, one-handed and over his shoulder, which cannot possibly be misinterpreted, and which would not be wise were Tarn actually present to see it. Tarn loves all this civility and professionalism stuff (or he pretends he does, anyway), and he also loves a sparkling clean ship. They've _all_ scrubbed a lot of floors.

Helex doesn't stop laughing. But he does come forward in two huge, wall-rattling steps and reach down past Vos. 

Metal screams, and so does the yellow buggy. Something goes **_crack_** deep in his ugly yellow head. The metal still screeches its protest, but the mech is silent now. There's no light leaking from behind his broken optics.

The mask comes free with frankly insulting ease, under Helex's overwhelming strength. 

Vos looks up at him. And up. And _up_.

Helex is unnecessarily huge. 

Vos... likes unnecessarily huge, which is its own little misfortune.

There's energon still drying on the mask. That, and cranial coolant, a thick sticky kind specific to heavy duty brain modules.

Helex licks the edge of it. His gaze never leaves Vos's optics, which are set deep and glowing like coals in his otherwise unsettlingly blank face.

Vos takes it back. 

The metal grinds as he slides it back onto his own face and closes the latch. 

The trail of oral lubricant is slick. Helex rumbles low in his chassis, satisfied. "Nice," he says. 

Between them, the defector's field collapses at last in spark failure—final and complete. Even his fans go silent now. 

"Is there anything you won't put in your mouth?" Vos asks, but his tone isn't right—he means it to be _derisive_ and it comes out _faintly admiring_ instead.

In the absence of a common language, Helex interprets the tone and not the words. 

He laughs. Licks his mouth. His tongue leaves a long, thick smear of pink.

Vos assumes this means "no".

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked something about this extremely dumb fic please feel free to let me know in a comment XD


End file.
